


Snow Joke

by irrationalgame



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Christmas, Danger, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, M/M, One Shot, Romance, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irrationalgame/pseuds/irrationalgame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jimmy gets lost and injured in a blizzard its snow joke for Thomas.</p><p>Downton Abbey One-Shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snow Joke

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry about the punning title, I couldn't help it.

It was, in hindsight, a very stupid and belligerent idea. But Jimmy was apparently fond of stupid and belligerent ideas, having had so many of them over the years, and he would never admit that he was wrong. Which made life difficult as Jimmy found he was often so incredibly wrong about so very many things.

He huffed, unwilling to admit to himself or anyone else that trudging through two feet of snow in order to reach the village (and the prospect of getting squiffy at the pub), was one of the more unwise of his characteristically ill-advised ideas.

“You’ll catch your death!” Mrs Hughes had admonished, shaking her head as she watched Jimmy wrap up in so many layers he could hardly move.

“I’ll be fine, Mrs Hughes,” he’d replied. He was a grown man and he was determined not to waste his half-day sitting around the annoyingly festive servants’ hall, trying to avoid Ivy and her blasted mistletoe.

Thomas had leant against the wall in the corridor, frowning. “Just make sure you’re back at a reasonable hour Jimmy,” he’d said, “and in a reasonable state.” Jimmy had rolled his eyes and grinned; he had no intention of fulfilling either request.

“It’s Christmas Mr Barrow,” Jimmy had stated, “if I can’t have a little fun now, when can I?”

Jimmy frowned – the walk to the village had been decidedly _not_ fun. His trousers were wet up to his knees, his legs and feet frozen, his nose so cold he thought it fit to snap right off. But as he neared the village the sound of children singing floated through the crisp December air and he smiled in spite of the cold. The big Christmas tree on the green was decorated with pretty coloured glass baubles and one of the market stall holders was selling mulled wine by the cup. With the snow lying thickly on the ground, the whole scene looked like a picture from a Christmas card.

Jimmy purchased a steaming cup of mulled wine and wandered around the village, gazing through the frosted windows of the shops at the piles of charmingly wrapped gifts. It had been years since Jimmy had received a Christmas present, apart from the customary gifts given to him at Downton by his employers. But those gifts, while good quality and undeniably _useful_ , were never personal. Jimmy pouted; he supposed if he bought presents for other people he’d be more likely to receive some himself. He pressed his face up against the glass of one shop window, his breath fogging the pane, when a shiny silver cigarette case caught his eye. He immediately thought of Mr Barrow and his ever-present cigarettes and imagined the smile that would spread on Mr Barrow’s pale, handsome face if Jimmy were to give him such a gift.

That image settled it; Jimmy went into the warmth of the shop and purchased the cigarette case, despite it costing nearly a month’s wages. Jimmy smiled, looking forward to being able to give Mr Barrow his gift, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He made for the pub, where the glowing lights at the windows and smoke billowing from the chimney held the promise of a cosy table by the open fire, a pint of something in hand.

Ten minutes later and Jimmy had charmed a few locals into a hand of cards, pretending to be thoroughly inept until they started betting, at which point he thrashed them all, making a tidy profit.

“You’re a card sharp if ever I saw one,” the barman laughed, pouring Jimmy another pint.

“I’m just lucky me,” Jimmy grinned, “it’s surprising how often my luck turns like that.”

A few pints later and Jimmy was doubling his profits – this time at darts. He bought his opponents a drink, just to ease their anger at having lost to him _again_ , and talked away the evening. It was half past ten when Jimmy finally staggered out into the cold night air, three sheets to the wind, a few flakes of snow drifting past his face as he started out towards Downton Abbey. The snow on the road had turned slushy and Jimmy wrinkled his nose at the prospect of slopping through it. He changed direction, deciding to take the longer and more scenic route home; he’d apologise to Thomas for being so late, he wouldn’t stay angry at Jimmy for long.

It was, in hindsight, a very stupid idea. The fields weren’t too bad, but when Jimmy got to the woods, he realised the problem with his plan. Whilst the trees offered a little shelter from the wind, the snow covered the roots and sticks and rocks that littered the floor, making every step a dangerous lottery. In some places the snow had drifted into great mounds and had filled the gullies and dips, giving them a deceptively safe appearance. Jimmy’s inebriation didn’t help the situation; he stumbled after every other step and had fallen flat on his face three times, disappearing into the snow.

“Bloody hell,” he groaned, dusting powdery snow from his jacket, “Stupid snow.” His gloves and socks were sodden, his fingers and toes turned to icicles. Jimmy walked barely three feet before tripping on a hidden root, turning his ankle as he fell, his foot trapped. There was a sickening POP as his left ankle dislocated painfully. Jimmy cried out, tumbling sideways, unaware of the bank that was disguised by the undergrowth until he was sliding down it. Brambles scratched at his face, stones tore at his clothes, his ankle screaming with hot, gut-wrenching pain. Jimmy came to a rest at the bottom of the bank, slipping onto a small, frozen stream. He lay still in the snow, panting and pale, biting his own lip and willing himself not to cry.

“You’re alright Jimmy,” he reassured himself, “just get up. Get up.” Jimmy dragged himself onto his knees, testing his left foot gingerly. The slightest bit of pressure caused unbearable agony – Jimmy screamed into his hand, unable to contain his anger and pain. He stood clumsily on one foot and attempted hopping towards the bank, only to slide on the frozen stream and land sorely on his arse. He gave way to tears, feeling utterly sorry for himself, and dabbed at his face with his wet handkerchief. He was distraught when the handkerchief came away red with blood from the cuts on his face.

As if mocking him, the weather decided it was the perfect moment to unleash a blizzard. Pulling himself under the branches of an evergreen conifer and leaning back against the trunk, Jimmy realised he was in serious trouble.

Deadly serious trouble.

~

Thomas risked the cold to smoke alone in the yard – the merriment in the servants’ hall was nauseating and only served to remind Thomas of his loneliness. He frowned at the lopsided snowman that the hall boys had made, even the broken carrot nose and the happy smile made of coal annoyed him. He shivered, sucking on his cigarette, and wondered if Jimmy was enjoying his half-day. Despite his best efforts, Thomas found the footman was perpetually on his mind – they had grown close in the year that had passed since Thirsk fair, closer than Thomas ever imagined they could be, but still not close enough. Thomas grimaced; he loved Jimmy, and if he was honest he loved him more than ever. He’d always been a fool for love and he’d been made a fool for Jimmy, kissing him and saving him and pining after him. Some days Thomas hated himself for it, for his pathetic unrequited love, and wished he could cut out his own heart just to rid himself of the ache and embarrassment. He flicked his cigarette across the frozen yard – it was already dark and the temperature was dropping rapidly.

Thomas made his way back inside and settled at the dinner table. He didn’t really eat the stew Mrs Patmore served, even though it looked and smelled good, choosing to push it around his plate instead. Jimmy still hadn’t returned and he chided himself for worrying; Jimmy was an adult and he’d hardly gone on an artic trek, but Thomas couldn’t shake the feeling that something _bad_ had happened.

“S’Jimmy not back yet?” Ivy asked, frowning. “Isn’t it a bit dangerous to be out?”

“I did try to dissuade him, but to no avail,” Mrs Hughes tutted. “I dare say he’ll be back soon.”

“Have you seen the weather?” Mrs Patmore said, bustling into the servants’ hall. “It’s a white-out!” The staff piled over to the windows, peering out into the night. Mrs Patmore hadn’t been exaggerating – there was a veritable blizzard blowing in.

“Jimmy,” Thomas muttered, “where are you?”

~

Jimmy shivered uncontrollably; his feet were completely numb now, which had eased the pain of his dislocated ankle only to replace it with the burning of extreme cold. He hugged his chest and rubbed his hands, trying to keep the circulation going, but his fingers were seizing up. The snow was falling thickly in a muffling white blanket that threatened to devour Jimmy as it covered his feet and legs. He tried to pull himself under the cover of the tree’s branches, but his left leg wouldn’t cooperate, sticking obstinately out in the cold. It was dark now, but strangely grey, muted and washed out in the snowy woods; Jimmy thought he might as well be in a different world, lost somewhere in a fictional magical forest. The realisation that he might die, cold and alone in the silent woods, not a mile from Downton Abbey, struck Jimmy in the chest, winding him. He let out a sob, the echo absorbed by the feathered-snowflakes as they fell, and he screamed into the night.

“Help me! HELP ME!” he cried, punctuated with chest-shuddering sobs. “Please, someone…help me.”

The woods were silent.

“Thomas,” Jimmy wept, “I need you.”

~

Thomas paced the floorboards of the servants’ hall, his heart heavy. Most of the staff had retired for the evening; only Thomas, Anna and Bates were still loitering – Mrs Hughes was in her sitting room with Mrs Patmore and Mr Carson was in his office. They were all pretending to be busy, but Thomas suspected they were waiting up for the same reason he was; to make sure Jimmy came home. Thomas lit yet another cigarette – he had been smoking continually since dinner and had almost finished the pack.

“He’ll be back any minute, you’ll see,” Anna said, apropos of nothing. “Then we’ll all feel awfully silly for worrying.”

“And we’ll give him a piece of our mind for being so foolish,” Bates added. Thomas nodded, staring at the empty piano stool where Jimmy often played for him in the evenings whilst he read the newspaper. Thomas put his hand to his face to hide the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes; he was being silly. Jimmy was likely drunk and just taking a long time to walk back to Downton. Or he had met a girl who took his fancy. Try as he might, Thomas couldn’t push away the feeling that Jimmy was hurt and lost and so _cold_. He shivered in empathy.

~

Jimmy’s eyes were so heavy it was getting hard to keep them open. He tried counting the trees or making patterns in the branches, but everything was so _calm_ and _white_ and _peaceful_ he could feel himself drifting.

“I’ll sing then,” Jimmy announced, “a nice song will keep me awake.” His lips were tinged with blue, his teeth chattering as he tried to form the words. _“Dashing through the snow_ _in a one-horse open sleigh_! _O'er the fields we go_ , _laughing all the way.”_ Jimmy laughed manically at this point, his chapped lips splitting. “ _Bells on bobtail ring, making spirits bright_ ; w _hat fun it is to ride and sing_ a _sleighing song tonight!”_ He started to cry, his tears warm against his frozen cheeks.

 _“Jingle bells, jingle bells,_ _jingle all the way._ _Oh! what fun it is to ride_ _in a one-horse open sleigh._ ” Defeated, he closed his eyes and let sleep take him.

~

The clock in the servants’ hall struck midnight and Thomas stopped, staring at the face with hatred for ticking on when his Jimmy was missing. He marched out of the hall and along the corridor before rapping hard on Mr Carson’s door. Carson opened it with a weary expression, a book still in his hand.

“Mr Carson,” Thomas said, “please, we have to do something.”

“What would you recommend Mr Barrow?” Carson grumbled, “I am not eager to go tramping through a blizzard after a drunken footman.”

“Please,” Thomas grimaced, angry at Carson’s lack of concern, “at least telephone the Grantham Arms, see if Jimmy left and what time he did. Then we’ll know if we should be expecting him.”

Carson studied Thomas’s face, noting the fear in his eyes. He shook his head; it seemed, even after everything that had occurred, Mr Barrow still held a candle for James. “Alright,” he acquiesced, “I’ll telephone as a personal favour to you, Mr Barrow.” He shut his office door and Thomas paced the corridor, straining to hear the muffled conversation within. Carson reappeared a moment later, his face grave.

“James left the pub around half past ten, rather the worse for wear, if the barman is to be believed,” Carson stated.

“But it’s after midnight,” Thomas swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight and dry, “he should’ve been back an hour ago. Something must’ve happened Mr Carson.”

“I will telephone the police and ask them to send out a search party,” Carson replied, “and I’ll wake his lordship.”

“I’m going to look for him,” Thomas announced, “and you won’t stop me.”

“You won’t be going alone,” Bates said, leaning on the doorframe at one end of the corridor. Thomas nodded tightly – help from Bates was still help, and if Jimmy was in trouble, he’d take any help he could get.

~

Thomas couldn’t express how grateful he was when Lord Grantham, Branson and Moseley joined the search party; four of them could cover a lot more ground and had a much better chance of finding Jimmy. Lord Grantham had Isis in tow, hoping she could lead them to the missing footman. Carson had telephoned the police as promised and they had set out from the village with the notion of meeting the Downton party halfway.

“We should split up,” Lord Grantham said, “Bates and Moseley should take the road, and the rest of us will take the fields and the woods.” The men had gathered in the boot room – Thomas was currently buckling borrowed hunting boots over his oldest trousers as Bates put on another layer. Branson was distributing flashlights and Moseley was worriedly wrapping a long woollen scarf around his neck.

“We’ll meet back here in two hours, no more,” Lord Grantham said, “and stay together, for god’s sake.”

Thomas had to force himself to walk, rather than run, over the fields, scanning the ground left and right for any signs of Jimmy. The worst of the blizzard seemed to have passed, but it had covered any footprints and ruined their chances at tracking Jimmy.

“He’ll be alright Thomas,” Branson said, his breath escaping in billowing puffs, “we’ll find him.”

“Yes,” Thomas nodded, “I have to find him.” Branson gave him a pointed, sympathetic look.

The fields yielded no signs of the footman, so Lord Grantham, Branson and Thomas ventured into the dark of the forest. Isis was released from her lead and wandered back and forth, her nose to the ground and her tail in the air. Thomas was reminded, with chagrin, of the last time Isis and he had taken a trip into the woods.

“Jimmy!” Thomas shouted, his voice lost among the snow-capped trees.

“Jimmy!” Branson echoed.

Progress was frustratingly slow. All three men struggled to keep their footing; Thomas ended up on his backside fairly early on and had to slow his pace even more, desperately aware that time was against Jimmy. If he’d really been out in the cold since half ten, possibly injured or unconscious, then he would be dangerously close to death. Thomas shuddered at the thought of Jimmy lying alone in the snow - it had crossed his mind that he could be dead, but the thought was too terrible to entertain. Thomas had survived Jimmy’s scorn and Jimmy’s friendship but he knew with a certainty that he couldn’t survive Jimmy’s death.

“JIMMY!” he called, fighting back a sob, “JIMMY, WHERE ARE YOU?”

~

Jimmy dreamed of Thomas. They were sitting side-by-side in the servants’ hall as Thomas read aloud from the newspaper, laughing at the stories in their usual mocking way. Jimmy studied Thomas’s profile, his sharp, angular features and how his red lips pursed around a cigarette. Thomas flashed him a smile and there it was, like a gut-punch, that feeling of need that Jimmy could no longer deny. The dream was an echo, a scene from any and every day, replaying in Jimmy’s mind like a jammed film reel. The realisation that he loved, yes _loved_ , Thomas was so unexpected and yet so unalarming it was as if he’d always known really, but it had just slipped his mind. And the best part was that Thomas loved him too, unconditionally and completely and eternally.

In Jimmy’s mind the servants’ hall was now empty, a thick layer of snow lying untouched on the table top and the piano and on Jimmy himself. Thomas was calling him from somewhere far away, shouting his name in panic, but Jimmy couldn’t see him. He was so very cold he had frozen into his chair and when he tried to rise he couldn’t for fear of snapping the ice-covered fingers from his hands. He was dying; his heart slowing, his lungs shaking with the effort of each icy breath.

“Thomas,” he whimpered, “please.”

~

The light from Thomas’s flashlight bounced blindingly on the snow, bobbing with each frantic step the under-butler took. Lord Grantham was silent but alert, scanning the undergrowth for any signs of Jimmy and Branson kept shouting Jimmy’s name until his voice was hoarse. Isis darted in front of Thomas, her tail wagging happily as if the search was all a game, and then veered off sharply to the left. She stood at the precipice of a small bank, sniffing the air, before turning on the spot and barking.

“What is it Isis?” Lord Grantham said – Thomas hurried to her side, fighting through the thick undergrowth and snow. He peered down the incline; there was a frozen stream at the bottom, the surface reflecting the beam of his flashlight like a sheet of polished glass.

Thomas’s heart stopped. Under a tree, just feet away from the frozen stream, lay the lifeless body of Jimmy.

“Jimmy!” Thomas screamed, crashing down the bank. He fell, Isis panting at his side, and slid on his backside to the bottom, before scrabbling across the ice. He collapsed on his knees beside Jimmy; he was cold, white, still.

“Oh god,” he heard Lord Grantham say and then Branson was beside him, asking something, but Thomas couldn’t hear anything except the rushing of blood in his ears. He clutched at Jimmy, pulling his cadaverous body against his chest, weeping. Jimmy’s face was bloodied, his body limp and he was so cold; he was surely dead. Thomas cried into the night, a howl of heartbreak and agony.

“No, no, _no_ ,” Thomas repeated, rocking Jimmy in his arms, “please, I love you Jimmy, please don’t leave me.”

“Thomas,” Branson shook him, but Thomas was lost in his own grief. Branson pressed his fingers against Jimmy’s neck, searching for a pulse; it was slow, but it was there. “Thomas, he’s alive,” Branson said, “he’s alive.”

Thomas’s world came crashing back into existence - he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Jimmy’s, his tears wetting Jimmy’s cheeks, his hands balled in Jimmy’s damp coat.

“Oh Jimmy, _oh_ ,” Thomas sobbed. An icy hand touched Thomas’s face and his eyes shot open, astounded to find Jimmy’s blue eyes looking back at him.

“Thomas,” he smiled, “oh I’ve died, haven’t I?”

“Not yet,” Thomas replied, “and you’re not going to.”

“I dreamed of you,” Jimmy beamed, as if they were having a casual conversation over breakfast. “That you loved me still, even after everything. Am I dreaming now, I can’t tell?”

“You’re not dreaming,” Thomas caressed Jimmy’s cheek, “I’m here.”

“I’m glad,” Jimmy sighed, “I wished for you to come.”

“Thank god you’re alive,” Branson sat back in the snow, patting Isis fondly. “Good girl Isis, good girl.”

“Are you hurt?” Thomas asked, his tears still falling freely. Jimmy had pushed his hands inside Thomas’s coat, his fingers pulling at the thick sweater underneath.

“My ankle,” Jimmy shivered, “it’s broke or out of place or somethin’. I can’t stand on it. And I’m so very cold.” Thomas shrugged off his coat, wrapping it around Jimmy, and examined his ankle. Jimmy grimaced and moaned at the slightest touch – it appeared to be dislocated.

“I can put your ankle back,” Thomas soothed, “it will hurt when I do it, but you’ll be better off after.” Jimmy nodded tightly. “Tom,” Thomas said, “can you hold him still?”

“Of course,” Branson replied, grasping Jimmy under the armpits and holding him tightly.

Lord Grantham found a stick and offered it to Jimmy. “Bite down on this James,” he said, “it’ll help.” Jimmy paced the stick between his teeth and nodded, giving the sign he was ready. Thomas put his back to Jimmy, his leg and the offending ankle on Thomas’s lap. Thomas manipulated Jimmy’s foot with trembling hands; it took all his self-control to continue when Jimmy writhed and cried in agony. When the ankle finally re-seated itself, Jimmy rolled to the side and vomited into the snow.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, stroking Jimmy’s hair, “it’s alright now.” Jimmy wiped his mouth with a numb hand, his cheeks wet.

“We have to get you out of here Jimmy,” Branson stated.

“We’ll carry you,” Thomas added, “if you can’t walk.”

Thomas and Branson helped Jimmy to his feet. His left ankle was still too sore to put any pressure on and he was weak and disoriented from the cold, so they supported the footman between them, Jimmy’s arms around their shoulders. He hopped awkwardly on his one foot and the going was slow indeed, but Lord Grantham walked ahead, finding the clearest path through the trees. When Downton finally came into view Jimmy let out a strangled sob of relief.

“I didn’t think I’d see it again,” he sniffed, his hand grasping Thomas’s arm, “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“You gave me quite a scare there,” Thomas smiled, “but it’s going to be alright now.” Truth be told, Jimmy was extremely cold and was only literally, not metaphorically, out of the woods.

“Mmmph,” Jimmy mumbled, leaning in to Thomas and kissing the side of his face. Branson and Lord Grantham exchanged pointed looks. “I have to tell y’something,” he slurred, “in case I don’t get the chance.”

“Jimmy,” Thomas started, “you can tell me _later_.” But Jimmy didn’t get the hint – his situation and the fact Branson was an unwilling witness were lost on him.

“No, what if there’s no later fer me?” Jimmy said, “I need you Thomas, I need you to know that I love you and I’ve loved you a long time and I’ve been stupid and _belligerent_.” Thomas blinked, unable to process what Jimmy had just admitted.

“He’s not himself,” Thomas said to Branson over Jimmy’s head, “it’s the cold, I reckon. I’ve seen it before in the war, men get confused if they’re out in the cold too long.”

“I won’t say anything about it,” Branson nodded, but Jimmy interrupted.

“Do you still love me like you used to, Thomas?” he asked, his eyes on Thomas.

“You know I do,” Thomas whispered, “I came looking for you, didn’t I?” Jimmy smiled, satisfied.

“I’ll go ahead,” Lord Grantham coughed, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, “and let them know you’re coming.”

~

By the time they reached Downton Abbey, the whole household was awake and waiting for them. Bates and Moseley had returned from the village with a pair of policemen, who immediately set off to call off the search and see if they could fetch Doctor Clarkson up from the village. Jimmy was carried upstairs and into his bed; a fire was already burning in the hearth and Jimmy’s pyjamas had been put out to warm. Carson and Mrs Hughes were fussing around Jimmy’s room.

“Help me, Thomas,” Jimmy said, his body so stiff and tired he couldn’t undress himself. Thomas nodded; he had been a valet and a medic, he could manage one sick man. Carson harrumphed at the idea, but Mrs Hughes shot him a look.

“Mr Barrow was a medic,” Mrs Hughes reminded Carson, “he’s the best man for the job. I’ll send some hot tea up Mr Barrow.” She shooed Carson out of the room, closing the door behind them. Thomas set to the task of stripping Jimmy’s cold, damp clothes off and dressing him in the warm pyjamas. Jimmy helped as best he could, grimacing if Thomas brushed against his foot.

“Thank you Thomas,” Jimmy said, as Thomas tucked him into bed. “You saved my life. Again. You keep saving me, don’t you?”

“I’ll always be there to save you Jimmy,” Thomas blushed, plumping the pillows behind Jimmy’s head. Jimmy caught Thomas by the arm, his fingers still icy, and pulled Thomas into a rough embrace.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Jimmy warned, “if that’s alright?” Thomas nodded slowly and closed his eyes, holding his breath. Jimmy’s cool lips brushed lightly against his own in the barest whisper of a kiss. “I thought I was going to die,” Jimmy breathed against Thomas’s mouth, “an’ all I could think of was you.”

“Oh Jimmy,” Thomas wept, rocking Jimmy in his arms, “I thought I’d lost you.” Thomas held Jimmy and caressed his face until Doctor Clarkson arrived from the village. He took the opportunity to strip off his wet clothes and then paced the servants’ corridor in his undershirt and pyjama pants, waiting for Clarkson to finish his examination. The assembled staff, Lord Grantham and Branson were all waiting for news, looks of concern on their faces. Anna placed a comforting hand on Thomas’s shoulder and he gave her a grateful smile – he was too worried and afraid to maintain his usual icy demeanour. He didn’t care how it looked; he didn’t care about anything but Jimmy.

The door creaked open and Clarkson appeared, his face serious. Thomas found he was holding his breath.

“He’ll live,” Clarkson said, “and I don’t think there will be any lasting damage. He needs bed rest, plenty of fluids and to stay in the warm. I don’t think there’s any frostbite and his ankle should heal nicely, thanks to Mr Barrow.”

“Well that is good news,” Lord Grantham replied. There was an audible sigh of relief from the downstairs staff. Thomas felt himself deflate, fear fading into exhaustion.

“He’ll need a little nursing,” Clarkson shrugged, “I can send a nurse in the morning or you can bring him down to the hospital if you prefer?”

“I can take care of him,” Thomas stated flatly. Lord Grantham nodded, sensing it was not a request but rather a demand. “I’m trained and…” he trailed off, deciding that confessing his love for Jimmy probably wasn’t sensible, no matter how much he wanted to say it.

“I think Jimmy would rather have Mr Barrow see to him anyway,” Branson added. Thomas smiled appreciatively; the whole ordeal had rather changed his opinion of Tom Branson.

~

Jimmy was waiting for Thomas to return and trying to rub some feeling back into his burning fingers. He smiled when Thomas walked in and closed the door.

“I’ll be playing nurse, if that suits the invalid,” Thomas grinned, sitting beside Jimmy on the cot. Jimmy held Thomas’s hands between his own, absorbing the heat, his fingers running along the seams of Thomas’s glove.

“I’m still so cold,” Jimmy frowned, “it’s like it has gotten into my bones and chilled me from the inside.”

“You were lying in the snow for a couple of hours,” Thomas shrugged, “you’re lucky to be here.”

“It wasn’t luck,” Jimmy shook his head, “it was you.” He smiled, abashed. “Come here, warm me up or something.” He pulled back the covers, inviting Thomas to join him; Thomas squeezed in beside Jimmy, cradling the footman to his chest. Jimmy wrapped his arms around Thomas and kissed his neck, his nose cold against Thomas’s skin.

“Do you…do you remember what you said, when we were walking back?” Thomas asked, even though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

“Yes,” Jimmy said, “and I meant it, half-frozen to death or not. I’ve loved you all along; I was just too stupid and belligerent to know it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Thomas.” He pulled at Thomas’s undershirt, his voice cracking.

“Shhh,” Thomas soothed, “s’alright now. You’re alive and I love you so, my darling boy. It’s all alright now.”

~

Epilogue

Thomas had never been one for celebrating Christmas, but this year, 1922, he intended to be merry and jolly and so full of goodwill to all men he’d drive everyone to distraction. For once in his adult life, he had a reason to look forward to Christmas.

“Do you want your present early?” Jimmy asked, sitting cross-legged on the end of Thomas’s bed.

“It’s Christmas tomorrow,” Thomas smiled, “I can wait one more night.” He lay with his head in Jimmy’s lap, smoking languidly as Jimmy ran his fingers through Thomas’s hair.

“But I wanted to give it to you in private,” Jimmy pouted, “and who knows when we’ll have any time tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Thomas shook his head, “you’re like an impatient child you know.” Jimmy jumped up excitedly, dislodging Thomas’s head and scurrying out of the room. Thomas fished Jimmy’s gifts out of his closet – he’d bought a crossword book, a deck of trick cards, a magazine about Rudolph Valentino and a pair of smart silver cufflinks, and wrapped them all in jolly paper patterned with holly leaves. He’d even written an embarrassingly soppy Christmas card.

“Here you go,” Jimmy grinned, a small and neatly wrapped package in his hands. “Oh!” he said, spying his own presents, “well you’ve put me to shame there – you’ve got me lots of things.”

“Well you didn’t have to get me anything,” Thomas said, “I already got you for Christmas – what more could I ask for.”

Jimmy smiled and shuffled his feet, abashed. “You’re awfully soft y’know,” he said, “no one has ever said things like that to me before.”

“I’ll stop, if you don’t care for it,” Thomas sighed, worried he’d crossed a line.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Jimmy sat down beside Thomas, taking his hand. “I love you saying those things, I’m just not used to anyone thinking highly of me. It makes me all hot inside, like I might explode ‘cause I’m so happy.”

In that moment Thomas felt like _he_ might explode from happiness. “Then I’ll never stop saying them as long as I live, my lovely boy.”

Jimmy kissed him tenderly, his fingers linked behind Thomas’s neck. “In hindsight, it were a very stupid and belligerent idea, going out in that snow,” Jimmy admitted, his lips still only inches from Thomas’s. “But I can’t be too sorry about it, when this was the outcome. Now open your present before I die of old age.”

“Bloody hell, alright,” Thomas laughed. He tore the paper from his gift, revealing the shining exterior of the silver cigarette case. “Oh Jimmy,” Thomas gaped, “it’s…you shouldn’t have spent so much, you didn’t have to.”

“I _wanted_ to,” Jimmy beamed, “just to see your face when you opened it.”

“I love it,” Thomas declared, “it’s perfect.”

Jimmy attacked his presents with enthusiasm, bits of paper flying everywhere. “Ooh,” he said at the crossword book and “ahh _yes_ ,” at the magazine. He kissed Thomas roughly because of the playing cards and beamed at the cufflinks, his eyes bright. Watching Jimmy open his gifts, Thomas wondered what he’d done to deserve so much happiness.

“Merry Christmas Jimmy,” Thomas said.

“Merry Christmas Thomas, my love,” Jimmy replied.


End file.
